


Secret Service

by Ladeeknight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Body Guard, Bread Riot, F/M, Road Trips, Secret Service - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-14 17:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladeeknight/pseuds/Ladeeknight
Summary: Modern A/U that pics up during the Bread Riot in Kings Landing. Think of the Kingsguard as kind of the secret service. The beginning is a dark, but I think once the setting changes things will lighten up. This is a Road Trip fic. I can promise that there will be fluff and lemons. If that sounds like your kinda thing I hope you'll join us.*Edit* This is fic is being written for the January facebook challenge about this place makes me feel. In honor of that I'm taking requests. In the comments section of the most recent chapter write the trope you want me to post about. I will look them over, pick the one that I am most drawn to that day, and write the chapter about that.





	1. Crowd Control

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers ahead******This first chapter is a little scary, but minus torn clothes and a few bumps and bruises Sansa suffers no harm.

Sansa ran blindly down an alley hoping no one would find her. She’d been separated from the rest of the royals at the Pier seeing Princess Myrcella off to her new life in Dorne. Sansa frankly envied the lovely blonde her escape of Kings Landing. She had spent a good portion of last night pretending it was she that was sailing south on a fancy yacht instead of the little lioness. When Sansa finally succumbed to dreams, instead of having the gallant Sir Balon Swann assigned as her Kingsguard, dashing in his white dress Kingsguard uniform, the way Myrcella did, Sansa got sent off to Dorne with the Hound. He loomed large in her dream rasping and scowling at everyone in the exotic Southern court, clad in the serviceable black suits that the Kingsguard wore day to day. As Sansa struggled out of the dream in the early morning light, she’d been fleeing a visiting Joffrey's limp embrace, only to run smack into Sandor Clegane’s stiff body armor. The dream was just more proof that even in sleep Sansa could not escape the Lannisters and their pets.

Remembering how free the dream had made her feel at its height, coppery hair blown back by the stiff sea breeze in spite of her subconscious substitution of sub-par Kingsguard gave Sansa another burst of speed in her waking life. Maybe today was the day she would escape. The crowd surrounding the harbor had been an ugly, bruised and hungry thing, just waiting for a reason to turn. Ever the obliging monarch Joff had provided one, caterwauling about how his royal dignity had been destroyed by a dog turd sailing out of the crowd. The offending excrement had hit him square in the forehead, and he’d ordered the death of the tosser. 

The next thing Sansa knew nobles were being shoved into cars by Kingsguard, tires screeched, and everyone important was away. But she had been overlooked. Sansa had purposely worn her gray sweater dress and black leggings with sensible shoes under a hooded charcoal jacket. It seemed a drab, shabby outfit next to Cersei’s emerald silk pantsuit which had been pointed out several times. Sansa had deliberately lagged behind the group looking for any excuse to slip away. She had been foiled for most of the outing as the baleful glare of Sandor Clegane seemed to ever be upon her. But in the moment that he was absorbed with getting Joff safe away, Sansa brought up the hood of her coat and decided it was her time to fly.

She had severely underestimated the mood of the city. The mob of starving people was not just a demonstration, but a riot. Sansa had not been the only noble who hadn’t made it into an armored car, and bad things were happening behind her on the main street. She needed to find a place to hide. This alley seemed likely enough. If it had a fire escape, she could climb up and out of reach of the mob. Perhaps her plan of escape still might work if she could wait out the havoc.

Sansa found the back of the alley before she found a fire escape. She turned back toward the opening to the street where pandemonium reigned. No going back that way, she thought, looking for the best hiding place. There was not much back here besides a very aromatic dumpster and some pallets that had evidently been in close proximity to rotting fish. Sansa pondered this smelly twist on a rock and a hard place and decided to choose both. 

The splintery wood gouged at her hands as she hauled a pallet over to the dumpster so she could climb in without getting too much muck on her. After a less than graceful climb, Sansa jumped down into the giant trash receptacle with a louder than she’d like clang. She stayed crouched for a bit listening to her heart hammer in her chest. Sansa counted to 120 and then slowly rose to peep out. The alley looked clear, so she reached down and pulled the pallet in after her. Sansa laid it over the residue of trash at the bottom of the dumpster and sat down to wait for the sound of screams from the main boulevard to die down.

At first, Sansa tried to pray. She would begin her litany with the Maiden, but by the time she got to the Warrior Sansa could not understand how there could be gods in a world that was ruled by Joffery. If there were higher powers how did they let him reign over the weak? So she tried her father’s gods, the old gods, but in the middle of the city reeking of asphalt and smog, she did not think the trees could help her.

It was just about then that Sansa realized that specific noises had separated themselves from the general den and were headed in her direction. She could hear at least two distinct male voices, rough with the low flea bottom accent though she could not make out exactly what they were saying. Sansa stilled and balled her long, lean frame into the smallest most inconspicuous lump that she could, listening hard.

The voices had stopped, though there was still plenty of noise from the street. A sudden BANG against the side of the dumpster startled lose a sharp shriek from Sansa. “I tolja, I seen a little bit of fluff blow down ‘ere,” snickered a mean voice.  
Sansa put a dirty fist that tasted like resin and mold in her mouth to stifle her terrified whimper while her eyes scanned the contents of the dumpster for anything she could as a weapon. She was reaching for a bottle with her unoccupied hand when something hard clamped down on the back of her neck. Despite being roughly hauled backwards Sansa got her fingers around the neck of the bottle.

Sansa pitched and writhed to get loose wondering whether she should scream. She had been pulled upright within the dumpster and she could see that she had at least three assailants two in front of her and at least one behind holding her. If I scream would more come? Would anyone hear? Would anyone care? Right now none of them could actually reach her, but their lecherous stares promised that state of affairs would be amended soonest.

Sansa bashed the bottle on the side of the dumpster. The pop and tinkle of glass were very satisfying. She flailed behind herself at a target she could hardly miss because he seemed to be everywhere behind her his hot breath reeking of garlic. An outraged yelp and release of pressure sent Sansa tumbling to her knees in the garbage at the bottom of the dumpster. She stayed crouching against the highest wall of the oversize bin to catch her breath and stay out of reach.

In moments a grasping limb appeared. Sansa slashed at it and blood sprayed and curses echoed as the arm was withdrawn. There was an argument in such a low dialect that Sansa didn’t even bother trying to follow what was said. Thus she had a moment to recall everything that she’d ever heard about violent attacks. Yelling rape never worked, she’d heard, one should always yell fire. What is good is yelling fire in a riot? She berated herself. Purely on instinct, she threw back her head and howled pouring all her fear into a long mournful noise that was oddly empowering. The sound echoed around the dumpster seeming to gain in volume. In the distance Sansa could have sworn she heard an answering growl. As the echoes died away, she felt something half way between silly and mad. Sure there was a wolf on her family crest, but who even paid attention to that sort of thing in this day and age.

She had no time to ponder that thought as one of the men was tossed up onto the dumpster. He landed with a crash in the broken glass quadrant sharp shards of glass tearing a string of curses from between his cracked and broken teeth. Sansa brandished her bottle at him. Leering gruesomely, he made a grab for her, Sansa jabbed at him missing as he snatched his hand back. 

This back and forth continued for a bit before Sansa was sure she heard a furious vibrating growl. She risked straightening to her full height to see over the lip of the dumpster. The sight that greeted her was both terrifying and magnificent. Sandor Clegane astride a glossy black motorcycle, bearing down an her whose attention was all focused on her. His fierce aspect filled her heart with dread and hope at the same time.

As she stood transfixed Sandor jerked the handlebars to the side and brought the bike to a skidding stop against the back one of her would be rapist’s legs. The man pitched forward with a muffled scream as Sandor dismounted the bike and let it come fully to rest on that man effectively pinning him for later mauling, as the big warrior turned toward the other man who appeared to be horror-struck. Sansa had no more attention to spare as the man who was still in the box with her made another lunge at her. Sansa did not dodge quickly enough, and he was able to grab hold of one of her arms. Someone outside the dumpster emitted a strangled shriek. Sansa stabbed at the man trying to pin her to the wall as he yanked at her leggings. He dodged the cut, but that loosened his hold, and Sansa wrenched free, torn leggings her only harm for the moment. She heard movement outside the metal wall of her current cage, and the hulking blood-spattered form Sandor Clegane rose silently over the lip of the dumpster. Sansa lunged at her fellow dumpster denizen jabbing at him with the renewed vigor of one who knows she is safe. The man jumped back to avoid her slash, and Sandor scooped his neck into a sleeper hold. The man’s shocked face went livid puce against the black jacket of Sandor’s daytime street uniform. “Did he hurt you little bird?” Sansa shook her head silently, the only sound in the alley beyond a faint echo of the riot was the man’s feet scrabbling in the debris for purchase so that he could struggle against Sandor’s grip. That silence was broken by a quick sharp snap. Sansa flinched and looked away. “You’d rather I let him live to rape another day?” The Hound rasped sharply.

“It’s always possible to change,” she offered softly.

There was a trashy thud as the scarred warrior let the body drop to the floor of the dumpster muttering curses about feather brained noble girls. Sansa remained silent. Joffery had called her every name in the book and some that were not there yet, but surely would be by the laughs he garnered. She supposed she had said and done some very stupid things, most of which involved trusting the wrong people. Ironically enough it was trusting the people that employed the Hound that were among Sansa’s biggest regrets. But she didn't think he’d care to bandy that point at this time so she remained silent, her face a mask of polite interest as the Hound’s stream of curses dwindled to a trickle and then petered off entirely. He gave her a long hard look out of glinting steel gray eyes. “Come here,” he growled.

Sansa complied. They were now alone in the alley, and it crossed her mind that if he so chose, Sandor Clegane could do anything he wished to her and blame it on the men he’d just killed. No one at court would believe her over him. He wouldn’t be punished. And yet Sansa stepped toward him calmly bidden by some instinct. Just as she came within reach of the long muscled arm that had just snapped a man’s neck their eyes locked and somehow she knew he had been thinking the same thing. Sansa took the last step anyway.


	2. Security Detail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's view of the riots. This turned out to be pretty gory and fairly graphic. I will mark with *asterisk * the gory parts and the bit about Lollys. You won't miss much, but I found that being inside his head I couldn't help but notice these things and remark upon. This might be the way it goes from now on and so will adjust tags appropriately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags. There will be graphic violence in this chapter as well as allusion to non major character rape.

Bloody fucking idiot girl, Sandor thought as Sansa let her only weapon fall from limp fingers and burst at her feet in a small emerald explosion, as she stumbled toward him, heedless of the pallet covering a good portion of the bottom of the dumpster. He’d been unable to keep the hunger out of his eyes a moment ago, and he knew she’d seen it, though now she came willingly into his threat radius. His blood was up, and Sandor had a raging battle cockstand and a blind alley. There was no small amount of hell that he could unleash on her without qualm of repercussions. She had no way of knowing that he would not do that. Seven bloody hells, remembering her in all her battle glory, eyes blazing, wee bottle in her hand like it was the Warrior’s own sword of retribution, he was not entirely sure what he would do. He’d never seen a woman with such steel in her, and this was not even the first time she’d flashed it at him. He wanted to test his own steel against it, with a parry and thrust as old as time. This had all been shining in his eyes and yet she came on. Surely not from wanting the same thing he did. Not after those men just attacked her. Sandor would be the first person to say that he knew precisely shite about women, but this one thing he did know, traumatized women did not want bedding. So even though he thought there might be a ghost of a smile haunting her still glossy lips he did not take it as any kind of invitation, but instead stood stock still mentally lowering his heart rate hoping that would stop the blood headed south. When Sansa took another step forward he could smell the cherry lip gloss she favored, and it blended perfectly with the lemon scent that always clung to her, though he knew not where it originated. Bound together in one refreshing scent, the mixture calmed his battle fury.

She was at the wall of the dumpster now looking up at him rather dazedly and expectant. Sansa Stark looked a perfect mess, bits of trash stuck here and there in her hair and to her person, smeared with grime and never more appealing in plain clothes her hair wild. He could have done without the scuff marks on her face or the torn stockings, but Sandor pushed those details from his mind lest his blood rage reignite. Then she did something that was even more shocking to him than seeing her attack a man with a broken bottle. Sansa raised her arms out to him as if she were a small child wanting to be held. 

It took Sandor a long moment to puzzle out what she was after. He felt a bit of an idiot once it dawned on him. Of course, she would need help out not wanting to become even more begrimed. Without really knowing what he was about, Sandor gingerly put his hands on her midsection, definitely not thinking about how his thumbs could easily brush the undersides of her breasts, and lifted. Meanwhile, Sansa’s arms snaked around his neck, her ring, or bracelet catching on the queue he kept his long hair bound in while on duty. It was so unexpected that Sandor almost dropped her. Instead he swung her up higher than was strictly necessary to hoist her long legs over the lip of the giant metal bin. The motion elicited a noise from her that fell somewhere between a whoop and a squeal, and she clung to him tightly. In this position, it was almost as if she were hugging him. Then Sandor realized that she was shaking and instinctively his long arms wound around her torso carefully avoiding coming to rest on her shapely ass and so finding themselves pressed between her shoulder blades and wrapped up in her hair, left and right respectively. Shaking gave way to sobs, which Sandor did not look upon as an improvement, but didn’t let go because her own arms were folded in a death grip behind is head, her feet dangling nearly a foot off the ground. Sandor thought he’d feel wetness from all the whining and snuffling going on, but she’d pressed her perfect porcelain face to the scarred ruin of his.

This was Sandor’s first hug in the better part of 30 years, but no one had ever pressed their face to the twisted flesh of his burns. He was overcome. He needed to sit down before he fell down. There was a stack of foul-smelling pallets just to his right, and he sank gratefully thereon carefully positioning Sansa on his way down so that she sat side saddle across his lap. She was obviously overwrought enough not to notice his burnt and puckered skin. No use jabbing her with any of his other prominent features.

Sandor took this rare peaceful moment to take stock of recent events so that he could plan a way forward. He’d woken up knowing today was going to suck. He’d smelled violence in the air when he awakened in the gray light of dawn. Instead of his pre-shift workout, he’d jogged down to the underground parking lot where palace staff were allowed to park their vehicles in the back behind the Royal Car Pool. He’d ordered the town cars that were to carry the Royal Family checked over one last time. Still feeling jittery he mounted his vintage ’97 Big Dog Classic Cruiser and revved the engine making the whole parking garage ring with the bike’s growl. He’d hoped feeling the wind in his hair would blow away the feeling of doom that seemed to enshroud him. 

Sandor’s drive through the city did not ease his sense of dread. Everywhere he looked wretched sullen glares met his. Though he’d pulled up the snarling hound face sock that had been Joff’s last Sevenmas gift to him, everyone on the streets of Kings Landing knew what wreckage lay beneath. If the people were hungry and desperate enough not to fear meeting the eyes of the Hound there would be trouble indeed. 

That decided Sandor’s next course of action. He drove to the Harbor Master’s building and parked his bike in the lot. It was the closest secure place to the dock Princess Myrcella would be leaving from where he could leave his bike. Sandor kept a "go bag" in the bike's saddle bags just in case he ever needed to strike out on a crusade to kill his brother. After making sure the locks on those saddlebags were secure, Sandor hailed a cab back to the Palace with just enough time to change and armor up for the day’s duty.

Sandor always had a least a fraction of his attention on Sansa if she was within his sphere of influence. Today he amped that up to a quarter. Partly because of the ugly mood of the city, and partly because she seemed to be lagging behind the group. At first, he worried she might not be feeling well. *Had that little shit stain sent Trant to beat on her again? he wondered as he noted how slowly she was walking and plotted another training accident for the droop mustached fuck face. Sansa’s face was as flawless as ever, but Sandor knew that after he’d let slip to Cersei what had happened up on the battlements and she’d grounded Joff from his x-box for a month, the boy had become more circumspect about where he had Sansa beaten.*  
Upon further perusal of her form, Sandor decided that it wasn’t invisible bruises that were holding Sansa back. She usually walked with an air of grace that drew the eye of everyone who passed. Today she was reigning that in somehow. He laughed bitterly at himself, as the realization hit him. He’d always thought that gliding floating thing she did was an unconscious grace that had something to do with being very nobly born. Now that he knew it was just another carefully honed skill that she could turn on and off at will he felt a sense of scorn and let it show on his face. She shrunk in on herself even more then, as if she were trying to hide. That was when her true purpose became clear. She was trying to slip off. Not on my watch, he thought grimly as he turned even more attention on her.

As it happened, he was looking directly at her when the dog shit hit the fan. If it had been a knife or even better-thrown rock, Sandor would have been out of a job, possibly at the cost of his head. But what he remembered of that moment were Sansa’s electric blue eyes sparked with joy though her face remained solemn. She had become quite good at that, he thought as the world started crashing down around him. He’d ignored Joff’s shrills for blood, shoving the little bastard rather roughly to the nearest town car. He hauled Cersei and Tommen to the car soon after, all the while in communication with his fellow Kingsguard via the eternally present ear piece. In moments the King and his heir were safely contained. No one had accounted for Sansa. He declined to get in the vehicle holding the highest of highborns instead wrapping the code to drive on the roof of the car before shouldering his way through a plethora of atrocities.  
***  
He was only accosted a hand full of times on his way to the Harbor Master lot. He fired lethally on anyone who laid a hand on him, seconds mattered at times like this, and lethal force opened up pockets in the seething mass of humanity that he could move through at a run. Once on his bike he let his gut lead him. He passed the High Septon being torn apart but stopped to shoot three men in line to rape Lollys Stokeworth. He stabbed the man who was currently at it in the stomach and then drove on hoping someone would find her quick. 

Sandor was just getting ready to rev the engine of his bike when he heard a strange howl above the noise of the crowd. His fist tightened involuntarily and cranked the throttle so that the motorcycle growled an answer. There was an opening to an alley in the direction of the howl had come and roared into it. He was in time to see a pair of men boost a third into a dumpster. Passing strange behavior, but no business of Sandor’s, until he saw a wild mop of coppery curls crest the top of the bin. A livid blue gaze crashed into his frantically pleading and then disappeared again. The red fury took Sandor, and he didn’t know what happened again until Sansa was flinching away from him. He was looked down at a dead man hanging from his arm. Not an uncommon thing to wake to from battle fury.  
***  
“It’s always possible to change,” her lovely voice was raw from fear and strain. Another bloody fucking lie that her folks had filled her head with. He snarled something hateful at her. She thought this asshole that he’d just killed with his bare hands could change. That was fucking ridiculous. Next thing she’d be expecting him to change. And if he did, what bloody use would he be to her. But here he was with Sansa Stark in his lap…hugging him.

At a loss for what else to do Sandor patted Sansa’s back and rubbed the base of her skull. That seemed to ease her somewhat, but her greeting almost drown out a fresh round of ruckus at the mouth of the alley. Sandor had plenty of time to slip his hand out of Sansa’s hair, draw his gun, and aim it at several men with crude clubs headed toward them. Pulling back the hammer so that it clicked ominously Sandor drew a bead on the lead form and snarled, “Pick a different alley, aye. Or this’ll be the one you die in.”  
***  
Sandor didn’t take his eye off his target to be sure, but he could feel the eyes of the other men crawling over Sansa’s now quiet though trembling form. There was a murmur amongst them about how five could easily take one, and then take it in turns with the girl. The pistol barked, and that man’s forehead bloomed a small red flower of a wound. His brains sprayed out the back of his head to paint two men behind him in crunchy gore. To a man the rest turned and fled, all but the man with filthy ideas who was crumpling to the floor of the alley never to draw breath nor harm innocence again. Sandor hoped a pack of stray dogs chewed off his soft bits before the cleanup crews found him.  
***  
Sansa was still in his arms now. She’d bucked strongly at the sound of the gunshot, but he’d tightened his hold on her in the fraction of a second before he fired to prevent her from jerking out of his arms and spilling onto the ground and hurting herself. Sandor realized in that moment after the immediate threat passed that he never wanted to put her down. He wanted more than anything to hold her securely enough that nothing could ever harm her again. Perhaps push her inside of him, or strap her securely to his back. Sandor had never felt this way about a woman before. He wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Sansa turned her face up to look at him, and he had that odd feeling that she could read his mind. He didn’t bother to hide his new regard of her, but let is shine in his eyes. Her ghost of a smile was tentatively resurrected into an expression that wrenched something loose inside his chest. There was no going back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On my last read through of the books it dawned on me that Sandor could have done whatever he wanted to Sansa in this time when they were alone together amid the violence of the bread riot. Bookwise we get an account from Sansa that assures us they were never really out of the riot, but remained in the public thorough fair. But the stable in the show could have been a cozy den of horror if he had been the horrible monster he thinks he is. But he's not that guy. When did you all start to see Sandor as not the monster that GRRM tried to trick us into believing he is?


	3. Dumpster Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title pretty much says it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've got a problem with bodies maybe don't read this one. I tried to be super vague and light on gore, but still it's bodies. See end note for chapter summary if you are just going to pass on this one.

Sansa looked up from her perch on Sandor's knee to see him smiling down on her. To be sure, it was a gruesome aspect as the expression did no favors for his scarred features, but the sentiment reached his eyes, and it was the first time Sansa had seen them without the fires of rage burning behind them. The effect was profound, and she could not stop herself from answering with a smile of her own, though moments before she had been sobbing her heart out with fear, relief, disappointment, frustration, and her own rage.

“I don’t want to go back,” she said. The honesty of his smile, of his very being, impelled her to speak her truth in that moment.

A grunt of pleasure? Laughter? That seemed to originate in his belly, but issued mainly from his nose was shortly followed with, “Of course not. Why would you? The question is, what are we going to do about it?” As if in answer he stood up.  
It was at this point that Sansa realized he was still holding her snugly against him, thus she did not fall out of his lap when he stood. He set her on feet that seemed only distantly connected to her shaking knees that were definitely too far away from her brain to respond to any commands. Sansa was forced to cling to Sandor once more to maintain her balance. “What do you mean ‘we’?” she asked. She wanted her freedom badly, and she owed him much for saving her life, but she’d learned the cost of unquestioningly following a man’s say about her future.

His brow furrowed as if she had sunk claws into him instead of just her fingers. His lids ground closed shuttering his silvery orbs from her sight for a moment, and he took a deep, resigned breath. He opened them again, and there was a hint of rage smoldering, but it was banked by something else. Sansa didn’t have time to delve further into the mystery of Sandor Clegane, because she needed to concentrate on his words. “‘We’ means me and you, the sole fucking survivors of the blind alley massacre, who need to get the hell out of said alley before I run out of gods damned bullets.”

Sansa flinched at the expletives but nodded. “I see,” she said more in acknowledgment of him speaking, than that she understood how what he was talking about would be achieved. Her vision swam with tears, and she lowered her head so that Sandor would not see them. He had heard what she meant with her question and answered it after a fashion. If she did not give herself to him, he would not help her escape. The desolation that filled Sansa at the thought of going back to the Red Keep steeled her will. They weren’t back at the castle yet. I’ll have to find some way to tell to tell him I’ve changed my mind, she thought. Going back meant eventually wedding and bedding Joff, and she felt that she’d rather trade herself to a man like Sandor for her freedom than have all her choices taken from her by a boy like Joff. 

Sansa felt a calloused finger placed not ungently under her chin, tipping her face up. The movement caused her unshed tears to spill down her face. Sandor got that pained look again. She let her steel infused will shine in her face and swallowed her emotions. “I kent you were trying to slip away today. While I’ll not say it was the most brilliant plan, it took guts, and you executed it bravely. Let’s not let it go for naught, aye?” His voice sounded like a saw scraping across hardwood.  
“Yes, you’re right of course. What do you want me to do?” Sansa asked, hoping he could see how amenable she could be.

Sandor’s eyes roved over her very deliberately as if assessing her various forms of use. It gave Sansa an unsettled feeling deep in her stomach, but not the crawly one that she got whenever Joff perused her person with his limey eyes. Surely Sandor wouldn’t want to…in the ally? Before Sansa’s imagination could run away with her, Sandor spoke again. “Can you right the bike from off the miserable bastard I rode down? Stranger, I wish I’d been thinking more clearly.” That last bit seemed to have been said to himself as he thrust a blunt finger through his hair, causing some of it to come straggling out of its queue, dark and tangled. “If the bike’s busted things are going to be a lot more complicated.”

Sansa nodded and moved toward the bike, “What are you going to?” She asked over her shoulder.

“Toss the body’s into the bin where they belong. We’re going to have ourselves a dumpster fire.”  
###  
The look of horror that crossed her face at his words was priceless. “A what?” she squawked incredulously. Sandor let a grin pull at his scars pleased that he hadn’t totally become her tame lap dog.

“Aye well this day could only be described as a dumpster fire, so we might as a well have one,” he said, as he hoisted the man up from under his bike that she was carefully righting. The bike didn't look to have taken damage. That pleased him as well. What did not was the gout of blood that ran down out of the long, jagged gash in the man’s arm as the body's position shifted. Said torrent of blood spilled down Sandor’s back as he heaved the man up over the lip of the dumpster. “Stranger!” The expletive was both his favorite oath and a bit of a prayer considering a stranger’s blood was seeping into his skin. Sandor was more than a wee bit proud even his disgust. He turned still grinning at Sansa “That one would have bled out soon enough even if I hadn’t have helped him along by laying a tire track up his back.”

Sansa grinned back for a moment, then her porcelain skin turned a distinct green color, and she tossed her fine breakfast up on the other corpse, who she had begun to drag doggedly toward the dumpster. Aye, you’ve a fine way with the lassies, Clegane, he berated himself, as he closed the distance between them and lifted her hair out danger of vomit. It was one thing to drag a corpse smelling of sick and another to have to share a bike with someone who had chunks of it in her hair. “I’m sorry lass,” he said, patting her back as she continued to heave. “I thought you’d like to know, that you did one by yourself.” He’d been thoughtlessly speaking to the battle goddess when he’d made the remark, forgetting that she’d shrunk back down to only a princess, without the rage upon her.

Sansa took several deep breaths and then straightened. “I was pleased,” she said in a quavering breathless voice. “That’s what made me sick.”  
Sandor felt like someone kicked him in the gut and the hand that he had not realized was still sitting on her shoulder dropped to slap against his own blood-dampened thigh. “Well, it’s good the world’s full of bloodthirsty bastards like me then. To keep you safe and protect your ladylike sensibilities.” 

Sandor drew his gun abruptly half hoping to scare her, to pay her back for this inexplicable hurt that she’d just dealt him. He’d never cared what anyone else thought of him. He’d had to get good at that with a face like his. But Sansa didn’t so much as flinch. In fact, she was reaching toward him her mouth half open to spew some bullshit, no doubt. He pressed the gun into her hand. Her eyes were wide and questioning. “It’s cocked and loaded. Go behind the dumpster and shoot anyone who isn’t me that comes near you.”

“Where are you going?” Now he could hear fear in her voice. He found that he didn’t enjoy it after all.

“I’m going to find a female body for our dumpster fire.”  
###  
Sansa was almost sick again at the implications of Sandor’s last statement. She crouched beside the dumpster with the gun pointed at the ground and hoped he returned soon. Then she felt guilty for hoping some poor woman was dead. Then she worried that if the Hound couldn’t find a suitable body, he’d make one. Surely he wouldn’t right?

Deciding that worrying was getting her nowhere, Sansa began to rummage through the things she’d brought with her to decide what should be left on whoever Sandor brought back to mark the corpse as the daughter of House Stark, that way at least one person’s death today would not be in vain. Thinking that she might take flight today Sansa had packed every small thing of value she owned in a medium sized cross body purse. She shifted it to her front and unzipped it one-handed, leaving the other hand free to hold the gun.

A wad of frilly panties and her second best bra sprang out of the opening. Sansa pawed through them down past her sewing kit and into the jewelry layer. Cersei had lent her several extravagant pieces for formal occasions where Sansa was expected to represent the ideals of a future queen. Those were more valuable in coin than they were for identification. There was a moonstone necklace that Joff had given her that she would gladly consign the flames of a dumpster fire, but Sansa recalled from her chemistry classes that gold had the lowest melting point of all the precious metals and so was probably not suitable for these purposes. That nixed anything else that Joff had given her, as it was all set in gold. There was a platinum cloak clasp in the shape of a fish, scaled with rubies and sapphires that her mother had given her on 16th birthday. It had been passed down in that way for as long as the blue eyes and red hair, Catlyn nee Tully Stark had told her daughter, with tears in her own Tully blue eyes as she brushed and styled Sansa’s hair for her sweet 16 party. The memory was nearly four years old, but in this moment it was fresh and Sansa was loath to part with its evoker. Her fingers found the smooth surface of a flat piece of metal in the shape of a dog bone. The steel was inscribed with the word Lady, Sansa’s old cell phone number, and the address of Winterfell. Part wolf though exceptionally well trained, Lady had suffered a fatal accident on their way south, and Sansa had been devastated. She would rather be in the fire herself than give this up. It had been on her charm bracelet until Joff had told her he’d have the whole thing melted down if she didn’t remove the “traitor bits,” as he called the bone and the leaping silver direwolf that had come with the bracelet when Sansa received it at age five.

Sansa checked her wrist to make sure the bracelet had not been damaged in her recent activities. The silver links were still holding, she was relieved to note. Reflexively she checked each charm as if they were appendages: toe shoes that she had received after her first dance recital; a little silver pair of scissors that bespoke her fondness for all matters related to stitching and sewing; a seven-pointed star given by Septa Septa Mordane once Sansa had mastered the understanding of the seven aspects; a piece of carved weir wood from the heart tree in the Winterfell Gods Wood, no doubt Joff would have burned that if he’d known what it was; a music note—Sansa frowned as she noticed a long strand of curling dark hair snagged on it--denoting her love of songs and singing; a tiny teal enameled purse given her by her best friend Jeyne encapsulating her love of fashion and commemorating prodigious shopping trips they'd been on together, and a lovely red rose which was a secret gift from her mother on the day of her first moon blood. The secret was that Sansa would only attach the flower to the bracelet during her courses as a signal to all the females of the household, a plea for extra patience for one dealing with the trials of womanhood. All the women had similar bracelets according to their stations, some of the lowlier maids making do with a plastic bead, but they were all bound in this way with each other. Sansa practiced this ritual in the Red Keep, even though she knew no one else knew the reason, in defiance of her poor treatment and as a way of staying close to a mother she had not seen in over two years. Sansa was not thrilled that her red flower was currently blooming, but at least it ensured she’d not left the little charm behind.

Her attention was pulled from her accessories by the scuff of a boot somewhere up the now smokey alleyway. Sansa stayed crouched but aimed the gun in the direction of the noise. Her father had taught all his children to shoot. She was not the markswoman that Arya was, but she was at least familiar with the process. “It’s me girl,” rumbled out of the smoke. Sansa lowered the gun before she could make out anything beyond his size. No one’s voice was like his.  
When he did emerge from the smoke, Sandor Clegane was cradling a pale bedraggle form. Her clothing had not been well made to begin with but now was ripped and torn. Sansa could see that Sandor had made some effort to straighten it, but it was evident by how the clothing was torn that her end had been rough. Sandor laid her carefully on the ground, saying, “Strip down and exchange clothes with her,” as he turned and began smashing up the pallets by the dumpster. Understanding more of the plan, Sansa hastened to comply with the unpleasant task. Tears were streaming down Sansa’s face by the time she was wearing the tattered remains of the dead girl’s clothes underneath her own coat, which she was not about to give up with winter coming.

“Excuse me,” Sansa addressed Sandor’s back. He'd begun stacking a few unsmashed pallets by the dumpster, but he turned glaring at her at the same time emitting a snort that she thought passed for laughter from him. “Can you help me dress her, please? I think it will make it go faster.”

“Everything would be faster without all the chirping,” he grumbled as he knelt and set about the task.

“I do not like being spoken to so abruptly, so I am showing you how I would like to be treated,” Sansa replied while they worked.

“Aye well chirp all you want then, it willna change me,” Sandor replied a little less harshly than before.

They finished in silence. Once done Sansa pinned the Tully emblem to her sweater dress over the still heart in the way she herself had worn the pin just last week. “Thy mother is a fish,” she whispered by way of charming the body to appear to be hers once it had undergone its dumpster crucible. 

“What’s that?” Sandor asked once Sansa stood and he could see the body clearly once again.

“It’s a pin my mother gave me on my 16th birthday. It’s been passed through the women in her family for a long time. I thought-“

“Aye,” Sandor cut her off sharply. “It’s a good idea, but leave the bracelet instead.” 

Sansa clutched her wrist protectively. “I’d rather not-“

This time he cut her off with a bark of laughter, that seemed much more at home in his throat than his previous expressions of mirth even though he was clearly about to say something awful to her. “’I’d rather not’ he mimicked her tone and accent perfectly though his voice was still ragged and an octave lower than hers. “I’d rather not fucking burn to death in this alley. In all your sentimental bullshit stories have you ever come across the saying, where there’s smoke there’s fire?” His tone and accent were his own again, and the volume was climbing as he gestured to the mouth of the alley that was obscured by smoke. “Flea Bottom’s on fire, and it’s headed this way. I can tell you from experience; you don’t want to be here when it arrives. Nor do you want the Lannisters chasing you. You had a good idea, now have the courage and practicality to see it through.”

Sansa bore his tirade, schooling her face into a mask. “Bark all you like, it will not change me,” she threw his own words from a moment before back at him adding a twist.

Sandor let out a growl alarming in its similarity to an actual dog. It raised the hair on the back of Sansa’s neck but did not frighten her. “Aye, I can change you,” he snarled as he grabbed her, his giant paw completely engulfing where her left hand was shielding the bracelet on her right wrist, and yanked her up to him. 

“So we’re going to do it your brother’s way then?” she spat. A little over a year ago Sandor had made a drunken confession to her about how he’d gotten his scars. Sansa had never told anyone, but it didn’t stop her from thinking about it often. She’d pondered and turned the scene over in her head many nights and had come to the conclusion that this was why Sandor hated bullies so much. His early maiming was why he never beat her like the others did. Sandor knew what it was like to feel helpless. She had a feeling he wouldn’t be acting like this now if he were not afraid of the fire burning its way closer with every minute they argued. 

“You gods damned, bitch,” the Hound seethed. “Gregor would have raped you bloody inside two minutes of finding you alone in this alley. If you think you would have been able to crawl away from here, you have no idea of the kind of man my brother is. If you want the Lannisters to think you’re dead, you are going to have to leave something precious behind. I get that you’re probably attached to the wee fish your mum passed you down, but in real life whoever would have tossed your body in the dumpster would have stolen that gaudy thing and lived off it as the King of Flea Bottom for a year or more. Also it’s too fucking subtle for Joff. Varys and Littlefinger would ken it for sure, but that’s no guarantee either of them would share their information unless they could find a way for it to align with their aims. Do whatever you bloody well want, you feather-brained little twit. That’s how you got here in the first place.” Sandor flung her away from him, hard enough for her bang into the side of the dumpster, but not so hard that her head smacked into it. He stormed off to finish putting bodies in the bin.

His words stung Sansa more than the blow to her back. She had acted recklessly and her actions had brought her to this pass. She had been such a sentimental fool. The utter chagrin of those feelings gave her the impetus to unclasp the bracelet. Refusing to let the Lannisters, or their pets, to change who she was at her core allowed her to take the time to pinch off the rose and music note before kneeling to fasten the bracelet around the dead girl’s wrist. Needing both hands free to complete the act, Sansa laid the two charms she was keeping on the girl’s tummy.

Sansa’s hands were trembling and so it took her until Sandor was standing over her to get bracelet fastened properly. Another derisive snort from above, “You’re keeping the rose above your gods, girl; oh the blasphemy of love.”  
Sansa had no idea what he was on about, but quickly pinched the bit of weir wood off the bracelet as well. The rose was her link to the maiden, so she took the old gods' charm from the bracelet to keep things balanced. She scooped up the mementos of her old life, unpinned the fish, and straightened, just before Sandor lost all patience as evidenced by the way he swept the dead girl up irritably. 

Sansa steeled herself to watch helplessly as he flung the dead girl into the dumpster like so much trash, but to her astonishment, he climbed the stack of pallets, leaned far over the lip of the dumpster and laid the girl gently on more broken pallets on the inside. Sansa wondered if he’d covered the other bodies with kindling so the girl's would not have to touch her own would be rapists. She decided to believe that was his reason. Sansa thought she heard him whisper something hoarsely about peace before he rolled a zippo across his arm and tossed it into the dumpster. With a little whoosh, things started to burn, and Sansa turned away, happy she’d already vomited up everything she had in her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Sandor and Sansa kind of haphazardly cobble together a plan to fake her death. What did you all think of the plan? Did I hit the trope (Sansa thinks up a way of repaying Sandor) well enough? What trope would you like to see in the next chapter?

**Author's Note:**

> Also per the new summary, post the trope you'd like to see me work into the next chapter in the comments. I will choose one. Then you can all guess which one I picked next time. Just to be clear, when I say trope, it can be any trope, it does not have to be a SanSan trope. The definition of trope: a common theme or plot device. Examples Beauty and the Beast trope (which pretty much all Sansan is built around), on the run trope (which this story is going to be centered around), how can I ever repay him/her for saving my life? trope (which was suggested by Orphan Adult), fake relationship, bed sharing, first kiss/time, nightmares, patching each other up, getting drunk together. Some of these things are happening anyway and it may just not be quite time. Also please feel free to fling out an idea of your own. if it speaks to me I'll use it.


End file.
